Threnodia Augustalis: Sacred to the Memory of her Late Royal Highness the Princess Dowager of Wales by Oliver Goldsmith

ARISE, ye sons of worth, arise, / And waken every note of woe; / When truth and virtue reach the skies, / 'Tis ours to weep the want below!

CHORUS: / When truth and virtue, etc.

MAN SPEAKER: / The praise attending pomp and power, / The incense given to kings, / Are but the trappings of an hour- / Mere transitory things! / The base bestow them: but the good agree / To spurn the venal gifts as flattery. / But when to pomp and power are join'd / An equal dignity of mind- / When titles are the smallest claim- / When wealth and rank and noble blood, / But aid the power of doing good- / Then all their trophies last; and flattery turns to fame.

Bless'd spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom / Shall spread and flourish from the tomb, / How hast thou left mankind for heaven! / Even now reproach and faction mourn. / And, wondering how their rage was borne, / Request to be forgiven. / Alas! they never had thy hate: / Unmov'd in conscious rectitude, / Thy towering mind self-centred stood, / Nor wanted man's opinion to be great. / In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight, / A thousand gifts would fortune send; / In vain, to drive thee from the right, / A thousand sorrows urg'd thy end: / Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood, / And purchas'd strength from its increasing load. / Pain met thee like a friend that set thee free; / Affliction still is virtue's opportunity! / Virtue, on herself relying, / Ev'ry passion hush'd to rest, / Loses ev'ry pain of dying / In the hopes of being blest. / Ev'ry added pang she suffers / Some increasing good bestows, / Ev'ry shock that malice offers / Only rocks her to repose.

SONG. BY A MAN-AFFETTUOSO: / Virtue, on herself relying, / Ev'ry passion hush'd to rest, / Loses ev'ry pain of dying / In the hopes of being blest.

Ev'ry added pang she suffers / Some increasing good bestows, / Ev'ry shock that malice offers, / Only rocks her to repose.

WOMAN SPEAKER: / Yet, ah! what terrors frowned upon her fate- / Death, with its formidable band, / Fever and pain and pale consumptive care, / Determin'd took their stand: / Nor did the cruel ravagers design / To finish all their efforts at a blow; / But, mischievously slow, / They robb'd the relic and defac'd the shrine. / With unavailing grief, / Despairing of relief, / Her weeping children round / Beheld each hour / Death's growing power, / And trembled as he frown'd.

As helpless friends who view from shore / The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar, / While winds and waves their wishes cross- / They stood, while hope and comfort fail, / Not to assist, but to bewail / The inevitable loss. / Relentless tyrant, at thy call / How do the good, the virtuous fall! / Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, / But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.

SONG. BY A MAN. -BASSO. -STACCATO. -SPIRITOSO: / When vice my dart and scythe supply, / How great a king of terrors I! / If folly, fraud, your hearts engage, / Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage! / Fall, round me fall, ye little things, / Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings; / If virtue fail her counsel sage, / Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

MAN SPEAKER: / Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example, / Teach us to estimate what all must suffer; / Let us prize death as the best gift of nature- / As a safe inn, where weary travellers, / When they have journeyed through a world of cares, / May put off life and be at rest for ever. / Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables, / May oft distract us with their sad solemnity: / The preparation is the executioner. / Death, when unmasked, shows me a friendly face, / And is a terror only at a distance; / For as the line of life conducts me on / To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair. / 'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open / To take us in when we have drained the cup / Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness. / In that secure, serene retreat, / Where all the humble, all the great, / Promiscuously recline; / Where wildly huddled to the eye, / The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie, / May every bliss be thine. 105 / And ah! bless'd spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight, / Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light, / May cherubs welcome their expected guest; / May saints with songs receive thee to their rest; / May peace that claimed while here thy warmest love, 110 / May blissful endless peace be thine above!

SONG. BY A WOMAN. -AMOROSO: / Lovely, lasting Peace below, / Comforter of every woe, / Heav'nly born, and bred on high, / To crown the favourites of the sky- / Lovely, lasting Peace, appear; / This world itself, if thou art here, / Is once again with Eden blest, / And man contains it in his breast.

WOMAN SPEAKER: / Our vows are heard! Long, long to mortal eyes, / Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies: / Celestial-like her bounty fell, / Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell; / Want pass'd for merit at her door, / Unseen the modest were supplied, / Her constant pity fed the poor- / Then only poor, indeed, the day she died. / And oh! for this! while sculpture decks thy shrine, / And art exhausts profusion round, / The tribute of a tear be mine, / A simple song, a sigh profound. / There Faith shall come, a pilgrim gray, / To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay; / And calm Religion shall repair / To dwell a weeping hermit there. / Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree / To blend their virtues while they think of thee.

AIR. CHORUS. -POMPOSO: / Let us, let all the world agree, / To profit by resembling thee.